“I am the man best suited to the job.”
But there was something in the Darkling’s voice that made Zoya wonder if he was quite as sure as he had been before he’d taken tea with a Saint.
The Darkling’s shoulders lifted. “It has always been easier to see me as the villain, I know. But for a moment, can you imagine that I have only ever tried to do what is best for my country and my people?”
“I can,” said Alina. “Of course I can.”
“Don’t say that!” Misha cried, his face flushed. “He never cared about any of us!”
“Tell me you regret some of it,” Alina said softly. “Any of it.” Her voice was gentle, coaxing. Hopeful. Zoya knew that hope. When you’d followed someone, believed in someone, you didn’t want to think you’d been a fool. “It’s not too late for you.”
“I didn’t come here to speak lies,” said the Darkling.
Alina blew out a disgusted breath, but Zoya could only shake her head.
“Do you really believe this is the life you were meant for?” the Darkling asked. “Powerless and pathetic? Wiping the noses of children who will forget you? Telling them bedtime stories that will never come true?”
But this time Alina smiled. She reached for Mal’s hand. “I am not powerless. Those stories tell us the only people who matter are kings and queens. They’re wrong.”
The Darkling sat forward, but suddenly Zoya wasn’t looking at the Darkling at all. It was Yuri’s bony, desperate face that stared out at her, Yuri’s frightened voice that shouted, “He’s going to—”
The Darkling seemed to be falling forward onto his knees. He reached out and seized Alina’s and Mal’s clasped hands. The samovar clanged to the floor.
Zoya stood, knocking her chair backward, but it was already too late.
“No!” Alina shouted. Oncat hissed.
Shadows flooded the room. Zoya couldn’t see, couldn’t fight. She was lost in the dark.
15
NIKOLAI
THE MORNING OF THE WEDDING, Nikolai dressed with care. Zoya should be here, he thought as he pinned a sprig of blue hyacinth to his lapel. This was a momentous day, a turning point for Ravka, the culmination of careful planning and a potential diplomatic disaster. But what possible good could come from Zoya being with him today? She would see him in his fancy new clothes?
It still didn’t sit right. They had traveled together for months, endured hardships, witnessed miracles. She had become his closest confidante and most trusted adviser. And he’d sent her away. Not just away, you podge. He’d sent her on an impossible quest with their most deadly enemy. Well, one of them. Truth be told, it was hard to keep track of who was deadliest these days—the Fjerdans with their war machines and Grisha prisoners, the Kerch with their unparalleled navy and bottomless coffers, the blight slowly devouring the world, the Shu who were currently arriving at their door.
Nikolai’s flyers had been tracking Queen Makhi’s airship from a distance, and he’d received word when the party arrived. They’d docked at Poliznaya, where they’d unloaded horses, carriages, and a large retinue of servants, including twelve Tavgharad in black uniforms. General Pensky had greeted them in full military dress, and his soldiers had escorted them on to Os Alta. Nikolai had made sure that the crowds assembled in the streets were watched over by First Army soldiers and Grisha Heartrenders, prepared to drop the pulses of anyone who wanted to make trouble. Though they hadn’t been at war with the Shu in several years, there was still plenty of anti-Shu sentiment, and he didn’t want this day to be more fraught than it had to be.
Tolya knocked at the door to Nikolai’s dressing room and leaned in. “They’re at the gates. You’re making ships again. That nervous?”
Nikolai looked down at the little wire boat in his hand. It was an old habit from childhood, fashioning bits and pieces into the shapes of animals or objects.
“You’re not worried about this whole madcap endeavor?” Nikolai asked.
“I am,” Tolya said grimly. “But this is the right choice. I know it.”
“Saints, are you wearing a kefta?”
Tolya and Tamar usually favored the olive drab of First Army soldiers. They had rejected the trappings of the Second Army from their earliest days at the Little Palace. But now here Tolya was, filling the doorway in Heartrender red, his sleeves heavily embroidered in black and his long hair bound tightly at the nape of his neck.
“Today we stand with Ravka’s Grisha,” said Tolya.
Zoya was going to be very sorry she missed this.
Nikolai took a last glance in the mirror, his medals affixed to the pale blue sash across his chest. He touched his fingers to the blue velvet ribbon tucked into his pocket.
“Let’s go,” he said. “The sooner we start this day, the sooner it will be over.”
“It’s almost as if you don’t like weddings,” Tolya said as they made their way out of the palace.
“I’m very fond of weddings, particularly the part where I can start drinking. I’m amazed they had a kefta in your size.”
“The Fabrikators made it for me. They had to sew two together.”
They descended the steps, where the royal guard had already positioned themselves in front of the remaining members of the Grisha Triumvirate. The white stone stairs had been scrubbed clean of any sign of the violence that had been done there only a short time ago, and every balustrade and balcony had been festooned with clouds of hortensia in the pale blue and green of Ravka and the Shu Han. If only it were so easy to bring two countries together.
“Tolya!” Genya exclaimed as they joined her and David on the steps. “Red suits you.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Tolya grumbled, but he couldn’t stop from preening like a heavily muscled peacock at the compliment.
Genya wore a kefta of shimmering gold, her red hair braided with slender strands of river pearls, and David’s hair had been properly cut for once.
“You both look splendid,” said Nikolai.
David took his wife’s hand in his and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Genya’s cheeks flushed pink with pleasure. Nikolai knew David’s gesture had been learned. The Fabrikator wasn’t given to spontaneous demonstrations of affection, but they made his wife happy, and he loved to see his wife happy. Then David reached out and rubbed a piece of her silky red hair between his fingers. Genya blushed even more deeply.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“Studying something beautiful,” he said without the faintest hint of flattery, as if he truly were trying to find the formula for the woman before him.
“Stop making moon eyes at each other,” Nikolai said, not meaning a word of it. They deserved to be happy. Lucky bastards.
A rider appeared on the main drive to tell them the Shu had reached the double-eagle gates, and a plume of dust from the road announced their presence a moment later.
The Shu carriages were of exquisite make, the black lacquer shimmering green in the sunlight like a beetle’s back, their doors bearing the two crossed keys of the Shu flag emblazoned in gold.
The Tavgharad rode in processional beside the carriages, their horses as black as their uniforms and their caps set at a sharp angle on their heads. On these very steps, their sisters had died mere weeks before. By order of their queen. And Nikolai knew that these women would set themselves alight just as fast should Makhi command it.